


After Case Nibbles

by Mnojick



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:09:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnojick/pseuds/Mnojick





	After Case Nibbles

Sherlock blinks twice, a look of confusion causing his brow to furrow in that way that gives him deep grooves on the top of his nose. John has always found it adorable, but this time it’s only there for a second before Sherlock explodes in anger. ‘Why the hell not?! We prepared the words. That was the plan!’

It had been a brilliant day and Sherlock is flushed on post-case joy, post-case giggles. They had been trying to foil a gang of serial killers for almost a week and tonight Sherlock finally figured out who the last accomplice was. 

More than the success of solving the mystery, there's a tremulous high Sherlock has coursing through his veins, much like the high he gets on drugs.

Part of it is because John has been praising him ever since they left the station. Ever since Mary John hasn't really shown Sherlock the old fondness and amazement and attraction to his deductions. It feels like he's walking on cloud nine as John's smiles broadly, his crows feet crinkling attractively. And then there's the other reason Sherlock can't stop shivering. The true capture of the suspect was in no small part due to the magnificence of his surgeon soldier. 

"Looks like Mrs. Hudson left us some nibbles." Sherlock sighs when they finally stumble into the flat. 

"Thank fuck, I'm starving." John rumbles, kicking off his boots and quickly going for the plate. He's ripped off the cellophane anddevoured two pieces already by the time Sherlock makes it to his side. "Mmm. God, that's good." He groans, a low satisfied sound. Sherlock watches him, eyes wide, as he continues to make wolf down the food, making deep grunting noises of pleasure.

"Here, have some Sherlock." He pushes over 

He bites his lip and says softly, "You were incredible, John." 

John looks up and smiles at him. "I wasn't the one who put together the entire web and I certainly wasn't the one who figured out that the first killer's own bodyguard was the final accomplice. Amazing." 

Sherlock feels a blush creep up his pale neck. "Yes, well that's just putting puzzle pieces together. I wasn't the one who tackled both our suspect to the ground and broke his arm until he screamed." 

"Not broke, just sprained." John's eyes gleamed and he smirked slightly as he walked into the kitchen. 

"Regardless, it was very -" John's dark eyes follow the movement of Sherlock's pink tongue as it darts out to wet his plush lips. "Exhilarating to watch." As he says this Sherlock continues to watch John's eyes go black. That look of lustful frustration that causes the grooves on his eyes and face to deepen further. Sherlock's seen it on John's face a hundred times in the past, when he catches him watching porn or finds John staring at an attractive girl on the street. 

He swallows and bites his bottom lip. He doesn't remember ever seeing that look directed at him. 

He'll never know what made him do it at that moment but he who made the first move after that statement but right then Sherlock doesn't really matter because he's finally kissing John Watson. _His_ John. 

He tastes of whiskey and sweat next thing he knows John's solid body is 

latching onto that trim waist, sliding down to his narrow hips

John felt as if he had been sucked into a sci-fi novel where the impossible became reality and his gorgeous flatmate had just kissed him.

John licked his lips, trying to capture Sherlock’s taste but the kiss had been so chaste, there was nothing there. His body was still frozen above Sherlock's, their faces still mere inches apart, when John’s brain came back online and he gasped a lungful of air before he whispered: “What… was that?” 

John’s brain was suddenly flooded with memories of all the moments he had dared to glance at Sherlock’s body and hoped no one would see him looking. He recalled the evenings falling asleep alone, knowing that the warm body of the man he adored, but who didn’t return his feelings, was just one floor below him. 

He wasn’t gay, of course he wasn’t, but Sherlock was his best friend and his… oh fuck. John looked up from the open collar of Sherlock’s shirt, along his long neck and sharp cheekbone to meet Sherlock’s gaze. 

“Sherlock?” John prompted again, still waiting for an answer. 

The detective lifted one shoulder slightly and let it drop in a universal signal of _"I have no idea what I’ve just done, but if I fucked up then I’m sorry." _

“Did you mean it?” John choked out.

Sherlock’s eyes went even wider as his lips thinned into a line, his eyes boring into John, searching, analysing. 

He started to shake his head, then swallowed audibly and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Fuck,” John exhaled as his whole body burned with a sudden need that he had kept buried inside himself for so long. The hands that held Sherlock’s wrists travelled along Sherlock’s arms to Sherlock's neck to cup his face.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered at the contact for a moment before they refocused on John. He lifted his chin up and parted his lips as if waiting for John to make a move. 

John’s body moved of its own volition as he climbed onto Sherlock’s lap and softly linked their lips. He captured Sherlock’s soft gasp and melted into the feeling of lush lips against his own. 

For a second, he thought he was imposing when Sherlock didn’t reciprocate. However, once he felt Sherlock’s hands cup his arse, he was sure he’d read the signals correctly. 

Sherlock broke the kiss, looked at John, took a deep breath, and pulled him closer again as his hands travelled up John’s back. This time the kiss was hungry, needy, and deep. Sherlock’s tongue slid into John’s mouth as if looking for answers to all the questions of the universe.

John melted into the embrace, letting all his bottled-up attraction flow into the kiss. He moaned at the taste of Sherlock’s lips, at the feeling of Sherlock’s body underneath him, at the hands that held him close then wandered, until they rested possessively on his hips.

They broke apart, panting, and John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, still cupping his face. He stroked his thumbs against sharp cheekbones and released a small chuckle at the serenity that had overtaken Sherlock’s body. 

“Did you get what you wanted?” John asked, smiling even though his heart ached at the thought that the heated kiss could just have been just an experiment to Sherlock. He pushed the thought aside and focused on the moment, wanting to remember it in case it never occured again. 

“John…” Sherlock shook his head and sighed a theatrically exasperated sigh. “I’m just getting started.” His baritone rumbled as he uttered the words, sending shivers through John. “Will you let me proceed?”

“Oh God, yes…” John moaned before he dove for another searing kiss. 

"God, you're delicious." 

John couldn't say who moved first after this statement but it didn't matter as he finally got to claim his friend's lips for himself. Sherlock tasted of coffee and biscuits as John licked into his mouth and then sucked on his lower lip until his friend moaned into the kiss and then started an attack of his own.

If someone had told John that Sherlock was a great kisser he would have believed them but he would have never expected this. Sherlock wasn't only kissing John but taking him apart with every nip and lick of his skilled mouth until the arms of his friend were the only thing that kept John from falling to the floor as his legs felt like they were made of jelly.

Or maybe, an amused part of his mind remarked, it was because most of his blood had flowed south and he had craned his neck for the last ten minutes or so to compensate for their difference in height.

No matter though when a quiet "Bedroom?" was voiced in between kisses John still managed to get his legs to work as they both stumbled in the direction of Sherlock's room. No chance that they would make the stairs to his room without a painful accident. As it was, they only barely found their way onto the bed without knocking into the wardrobe or stumbling over the nightstand.

"This isn't too fast, right?" Sherlock broke their kiss as they rearranged their limbs to lie face to face. "I mean... I usually don't and... my experiences are limited..."

John interrupted his friend's insecure stuttering with a soft kiss and stroked his cheek. "It's all fine."

John wanted to make something he and Sherlock could both enjoy. Previously lost in one of his sulking fits, a week-long strop, Sherlock had abruptly disappeared from the flat earlier in the day. John settled on a simple vanilla cake, a favourite of his.

Mixing the icing led to distraction, a dribble slipping from the edge of the mixing spoon. It dropped to his wrist. Made its slow way along John’s forearm. He scowled, ducking his head to lick the sweet drip away. Sugar exploded on his tongue. 

A grin reshaping his mouth, John swiped a finger through the bowl. Scooped a line of icing and brought it to his mouth. Tongue flicking out, he lapped up the frosting, eyes sinking closed with a low hum. When they flashed open, his lips shifted into a naughty smile, like someone had caught him with his hand in the cookie jar. Allowing himself an uncharacteristic level of mischievous freedom, John scooped more icing out, this time with all five fingers of one hand. He pushed the tip of his thumb into his mouth, sucking with closed eyes. A soft noise, just short of a moan, slipped from his lips, John smiling around the digit.

"Well." The voice made John freeze. "This is certainly…interesting."

John's eyes snapped open. Sherlock was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Leaning against the frame with arms folded over his chest, he watched John, eyebrow raised. John's cheeks went red, and he popped his thumb out of his mouth. Attempted to hide the hand behind his back.

"Sherlock.” His eyes widened, cheeks hot and flushed. “Ah, right, I was..." John edged toward the sink, forcing a mild smile. If he could just wash his hand… He cleared his throat. "I was going to make something. Wasn't sure if you were hungry, or—"Sherlock raised a hand, and John fell silent. Watched the detective enter the kitchen, walking toward him. No, not walking. 

_Prowling._

Sherlock moved toward him, hands brushing the edge of the table, and crowded John back against the counter. There was a predatory edge to his smirk. 

"Baking, John?" Sherlock’s voice was soft. Looming over him, the detective caught John’s wrist when it reached for the sink. "How… domestic.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the gesture a blend of sardonic admiration. “Never would have thought you the type." Lifting John’s arm, his eyes dropped to the four icing-covered fingers. The smile he aimed at John would look perfectly at home on a tiger.

"Yeah, well…” John stopped, needing to clear his throat again. Sherlock stroked his fingertips along the inside of John's wrist, scattering his thoughts. "You're not the only one who gets bored." He tried for a smile, and it came up weak, quivering under another of Sherlock’s dark grins.

"So it would seem." Sherlock dropped his own smile. His silvery eyes narrowed, studying John's icing-smeared hand with serious consideration. "The icing is good, I gather?"

John felt his cheeks burn and tried not to imagine how red his face must be. He moved to yank his hand free, but Sherlock was having none of it. He tightened his hold, almost to the point of pain, and John’s brows rose.

“Right, about that—" he fell silent, voice breaking off in a choking noise. Sherlock, ignoring John's flounder, bent his head. Kissed the tip of John's index finger and wiped the icing off with his mouth. His tongue flicked out, licking a sugary smear from his bottom lip. His eyes held John's, pupils blown wide.

"Mmm.” The noise was a low, vibrating hum deep in Sherlock’s throat. _“Very_ good." John's staring eyes fastened on the curve of Sherlock's mouth. His own tongue darted out, skating across his suddenly dry lips before disappearing. Chuckling, Sherlock flashed a grin and took John's index finger into his mouth.

Feeling as if his eyes might actually pop out of his head, John watched the detective swirl his tongue around John’s finger. Felt him trace to the third knuckle, John’s fingertip brushing the warm, wet inside of Sherlock’s cheek, and back to the nail, tongue caressing, tasting. Sherlock made a noise that set heat burning low in John’s stomach. Made the fine hair on his arms and the nape of his neck stand at attention. 

"Sherlock…” the name emerged breathy, shaking. Sherlock seemed oblivious. Eyes sliding shut, he sucked slowly, soft humming noises drifting up from his throat, vibrating around John's finger.

John shut his mouth, riveted. 

Finished with the first finger, Sherlock ran his tongue up the index one last time. Caught John’s eye as he pushed the middle finger into his mouth. Traced warm, wet lines over each knuckle. Rubbed his tongue over the print, sucking hard, Sherlock lapped icing away with light flicks of the tip of his tongue.

The next finger—the ring finger—brought teeth into the equation. Slow, gentle scraping, and undeniably sensual nibbling. The sensation was electrifying, sending shivers over John’s body. Jeans tight and uncomfortable, breath coming faster, pupils blown as wide as Sherlock’s, John watched intently. His free hand settled on Sherlock’s waist, fingers locking around tight muscle, pulling. Sherlock let himself be tugged closer, nipping John’s finger and dragging the icing off with his lips as they curved upwards. 

Sherlock moved onto his baby finger. John’s eyes threatened to roll back, legs beginning to shake, but he remained focused. Forced his lids open and stared. Watched Sherlock lick the end of his smallest finger, tracing his tongue along the crease between ring and pinky. Sherlock’s lips drifted along the side of his hand, making John’s breath stutter. Teeth roving across knuckles, Sherlock took the last icing-covered finger into his mouth and began a slow, lazy swipe with his tongue. 

John felt his body tremble, shaking with fire in his gut. Hand still wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, he dug nails into skin through fine silk. Sherlock smirked, looking at John with lowered lashes and darkened eyes. He chuckled, a rough, growling sound, setting a languid pace of sucking and licking along John’s finger. 

“Oh god, Sherlock.” The curse hissed out of John, his brain finally rediscovering the English language. His words were rewarded with Sherlock slipping his mouth off John’s hand, leaning to press his lips to John’s. There was icing across Sherlock’s teeth, tongue, and bottom lip and John made sure to taste every inch.

Groaning, John tangled his licked-clean hand in thick, soft curls. Dragged Sherlock closer, grinding against the hard flesh evident through Sherlock’s dress pants. The detective’s breath caught, a low moan emerging around the contact and friction. He laughed, a soft sound. Captured John’s bottom lip in his teeth. Tugging lightly, shifting his hands under John’s jumper, Sherlock pulled it up, fingers tracing the curves of John’s ribs.

“Delicious.” Sherlock’s voice was heavy with arousal, whispering against John’s lips. He traced his tongue over the seam of John’s mouth, seeking entrance. John parted his lips, moaning at the feeling of Sherlock’s tongue exploring with keen attention. Sherlock tasted like icing and_ Sherlock_, and John made a satisfied noise deep in his throat, leaning back to help Sherlock pull the wool jumper over his head. “And, I am not referring to just the icing,” Sherlock added, leaning down to slide his tongue along the side of John’s neck, over his collar bones.

Carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, John pulled the detective’s mouth to his. Slid his hands down the front of Sherlock’s shirt, working at the buttons. Getting them undone, tongue tangling lazily with Sherlock’s, John pushed the shirt away. Let it fall to the floor, hands moving over Sherlock’s bare chest. His thumb flicked over a nipple, and John tasted Sherlock’s answering moan. Revelled in the subtle shudder twitching over the other man’s skin.

In a sudden, jerky movement, Sherlock surged forward, pressing John against the counter. His mouth travelled over John’s neck and shoulders, moving over the old scar, tracing the edges with his lips. John dragged a thumb along the hem of Sherlock’s pants. Dipped his fingers under to stroke the sharp edges of a hip bone, bending his head to nip Sherlock’s neck. He left a mark, making Sherlock hum, fingers fumbling at John’s belt buckle. Undone, Sherlock let it fall to the floor with a clatter. John responded by attacking Sherlock’s own belt, ripping it from the loops.

“Eager, aren’t you?” Sherlock murmured. His chuckle was cut off, reshaped into a groan at the press of John’s hips against his. John let his head fall back, mouth open, grinding hard against Sherlock, hands grabbing at his waist.

“Fantastic deduction.” The words sighed out of John, and he raised higher on his toes to mouth at Sherlock’s ear, using teeth to tug at the soft skin of his earlobe. 

His body tensing, thrumming with energy, Sherlock planted his hands on either side of John. Gripped the counter until his knuckles went white. “Oh, John…” Tilting his head to the side, he seemed to lose himself to the slow, wet trail of kisses John drew over his neck. John’s hands drifted down his bare chest, tracing along the dip of his stomach, fingers hooking into the waist of his black pants. In one quick, slick movement, John slipped them down. Grabbing at John’s own boxers, Sherlock pushed them off, and they came together. Skin on skin, hot, wanting need, Sherlock pressing John hard against the counter. 

“Yes.” John was panting, fingernails drawing red lines of fire up Sherlock’s chest, down his back. “Oh, _yes,_ oh, Sherlock.” The angle was wrong, John too low, Sherlock too tall, throwing off any chance at a rhythm. Whining, growling, Sherlock bent. Locked his hands on the curve of John’s arse, hauling him up and around. John wrapped his legs around Sherlock’s waist, mouth fastened on Sherlock’s neck, sucking colour into pale skin. 

His back hit the edge of the table, and Sherlock pinned him there, rutting between John’s legs. John’s head fell back with a cry, eyes shut tight. His thighs gripped Sherlock with bruising strength, holding him in place. With his legs locked at the ankles, John bucked up, meeting Sherlock’s downward thrust, both of them gasping, seeking out each other’s mouths. Meeting with teeth and tongue and lips, breathing desperation and lust down the other’s throat. 

The slide was brutal, all friction and heat until John felt his tip leaking, and their pre-come slicked the way. Sherlock’s hand hit the tabletop, fingers splayed, planted in place. Head bent, curls hanging in his closed eyes, Sherlock's other hand dug bruises into John’s lower back, cradling him against his body. 

“John, John, _John.”_ His name dropped from full, Cupid’s Bow lips in a panting litany, driving John to the edge and over. Sherlock’s cock slid against his, slick and hot, and John’s eyes flew open, his climax shooting out of him with a breathless cry. His legs tightened, drawing Sherlock closer, nails scrabbling at the detective’s shoulder as he shuddered and spilled between them. Their releases mixed, pooling on John’s lower stomach, warm and sticky.

“Ah-_ahhhh_, Sherlock…” John breathed. Eyes closed, he fumbled. Found Sherlock’s face, fingers tracing the shape of cheekbones, and bringing their mouths together. John sucked Sherlock’s bottom lip and tasted sugar. 

They broke apart, Sherlock staring into his face with dark, hooded eyes. Their heavy breathing mingled, combined panting filling the kitchen with a rhythmic pattern of laboured inhale-exhale. Sherlock’s face shifted, transformed from slated lust to amusement by a wide grin. He bent, nuzzling into John’s neck.

“You should bake more often.” 

They night had been exciting and everything Sherlock could have wished for, and already the morning promises to be even more fulfilling. 

Sherlock wakes with a happy sigh to the rocking motion of the mattress dipping and swaying as John shifts beside him. Ten minutes ago the surgeon's alarm had gone off and with a deep grunt John had hit the snooze button. Now as John's enveloping warmth reaches across Sherlock's body

turns off his phone for good, 

Sherlock had a glass of wine and that evidently was too much for his low alcohol tolerance. John was drunk too, Sherlock remembers him polishing off a bottle of scotch. It lead to some dancing, some giggling, and something turning bold inside Sherlock and he then went crawling on top of John's lap.

There's a lot more he remembers 

John woke to the rocking sway of the bed as Sherlock shifted beside him. Moments before there had been the telltale sound of his phone chiming. Now, there was mostly the enveloping warmth of Sherlock's skin as he reached across John’s body to grab the cellphone from the bedside table. John grumbled drowsily, shoving at the expanse of Sherlock’s thin chest in an effort to get some breathing room back. He was far too aware of what had happened the night before to be confused as to why Sherlock was in his bed, but it couldn’t be far past dawn and he’d been looking forward to a bit of a sleep-in. The delicious aches and pains in his body were testament enough for a couple of hours more rest.

Above him Sherlock let out a deep rumble of a chuckle, obviously not feeling the same way. “Come now John,” He purred and John sighed as he felt lips descend onto the pale expanse of his neck, soft warm breath brushing against his skin as the other man scented him lightly. Sherlock seemed pleased with what he smelled, given the soft rumbling sound of approval that vibrated against John’s neck. John sighed, still too drowsy to open his eyes, but more than happy to arch his neck and offer more of it for the other man to examine. Sherlock hummed at the display of submission, the Alpha in him no doubt pleased by it. Thin lips trailed up John’s throat, warm and damp, then he pressed a kiss to John’s mouth. He smelled slightly of last nights brandy and morning breath.

John wrinkled his nose and chuckled against the other man’s lips, finally squinting one eye open enough to peer up into Sherlock’s mischievous eyes, they are blue today, like the morning sky. His mop of black hair is tousled by last nights ministrations, and he looks positively edible.

Beside his head Sherlock’s phone chimes again. Neither of them pays it any mind.

He can’t help but stare into those lovely eyes, examine high cheeks bones and sharp feature’s unhindered now that he has permission to actually look. Why had he never noticed the small beauty mark above Sherlock’s left brow? When had that thin little scar appeared on Sherlock’s cheek?

“Hmm…aren’t you lovely.” John croaks, his own voice still hazy from sleepy.

“I just woke up, John, it’s hardly the time.” Sherlock protests with a roll of his eyes but doesn’t seem to mind the compliment otherwise. Instead moving to dig the bed covers out and away from where John had tucked them around himself during the night. “You’re a damn hog by the way.” He grumbled, tossing the covers to the side so he can get an eyeful of John unhindered by something so meaningless as a duvet.

Sherlock’s phone chimes again, perhaps a little more persistent.

“Mmm… if ever there was a time to compliment you it’d be now darling.” John can’t help but respond, his words turning into a sharp yelp as the cool morning air slapped against his skin. He felt a blush creep up his neck as his bare skin was exposed to the predawn light. He’d seen himself in the mirror often enough to know he was not the greatest sight to behold. He was short, even for an omega, and while he exercised consistently his muscles had started to soften slightly with age. He had more scars than most omega’s should, but he’d earned those, so he could hardly complain about that.

Sherlock did not seem to mind. Instead he eyed John like he was one of his cases, something worthy of capturing all of his attention, a puzzle to be appreciated and examined. The heady scent of arousal tinged the air with the scent of thunder and cut grass, that, combined with Sherlock’s natural petrichor scent, made John feel as though he was in the middle of a storm.

“John…you have no idea how long I have been waiting to see you like this,” Sherlock admits, sitting back on his heels, crouched among the sheets and bedding. God, his name on Sherlock’s lips had never sounded so good. The hand Sherlock run’s down John’s nude hip is like a brand, rough and hot. John swallows hard and shifts on the bed arching his hips up against the pressure of Sherlock’s hands to get more of that skin on skin contact. Sherlock’s pupils blow wide at the sight and John can’t believe something so simple could make him feel so damn sexy.

“Christ, don’t look at a man like that.” John chuckles out, flopping a hand over his eyes to cover the blush that blossoms even brighter up his cheeks.

“Oh, is my omega shy?” Sherlock crooned, his voice far to deep to take on such a high tone.

“Your omega, huh?” John chuckled past the swell of his arm, his breath hitching in his throat at the idea.

“Mmm…most certainly, mine.” Sherlock purrs, shifting to stretch his body out above Johns, his longer frame arched to better accommodate John’s smaller stature. “Now come here and give me a kiss.” He commands, tugging with long fingers at John’s arm to uncover his face. John complies, but only because he’s been wanting the exact same thing.

Eagerly he reaches for the other man, his fingers tangling in black locks and tugging Sherlock down until their lips meet with a spark of pent up desire. Sherlock lets him lead, eagerly seeking out John’s lips with a sharp clash of teeth that spoke of two people who still did not quite know each other's bodies yet.

Above John’s head Sherlock’s phone began to chime in earnest, and Sherlock groaned, breaking the kiss with a sigh of regret.

“I should get that.” He mumbles against John’s lips, reaching for his phone with one hand, the other holding himself above John’s body with surprising ease.

“What?!” He snaps into the phone, rolling his eyes at John by way of an apology for the interruption. John groans at the sound of Mycroft’s voice on the other side of the line.

“Go on then,” He whispers, shoving at Sherlock until the lanky man gives in and rolls off of him. Rolling onto his belly he drags the duvet back up to cover himself from the morning chill and burrows himself thoroughly into the pillows to block out the sound of the brother’s grousing at each other. He has no doubt that their lovely morning will be interrupted by Sherlock’s esteemed older brother. Sherlock had been chasing a case for the last month, with very few leads and no physical evidence that even his brilliant mind could find. If Mycroft was calling it was because there was finally some evidence to go by.

“Very well Mycroft, I will be there in thirty minutes.” Sherlock’s voice does not sound all that eager, even though there is a new development in his case and John smiles at that. He likes that he stands a chance against a good mystery.

“John?! Mycroft has a break in the case!” His excitement is contagious and John peers out from his pillows, a grin chasing the edge of his lips.

“Shall we get dressed?” He questioned, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow in return, shaking his head. “Hardly necessary, I’ll text you later instead, it’s just preliminaries at this point.” Sherlock explained, his eyes roving over what little of John he could see through the blankets. “I’d rather you slept in after last night.” He admitted, a flush appearing high on his cheekbones.

John laughed aloud at that, shaking his head. “I’m an omega Sherlock, we’re built to take a good shagging.” Despite his protests though he does not bother getting up from the bed when Sherlock does. He was proper exhausted after yesterdays stint at St. Bart’s and even more so after their escapades the night before.

The sounds of Sherlock getting ready lulled him into a drowsy half-sleep. He listened to the sound of the other man shuffling through his closet and putting on his clothes. The splash of water on the bathroom sink and the sound of shoes being kicked into place were familiar enough that he barely noticed them, despite the fact he wasn’t in his own bed.

A sudden weight landing on top of him sent the breath wheezing out from his lungs and he choked back a laugh as he felt nothing but sharp elbows and knees digging into his belly and shoulders. Long fingers scrambled to slink the bedclothes from around John’s face. “I’m off John,” Sherlock announced, his face peering into the hollow he’d created.

John snorted his own blue eyes wrinkling at the corners. “Get off with you than you madman!” He commanded, and just managed to swing a pillow at the detective’s retreating back laughing when it tangled in Sherlock’s Belstaff.

“Message me and we’ll meet for lunch!” He shouted, his request muffled by the sound of the door slamming closed and Sherlock’s retreating steps.

### Chapter Text

“Oh, God,” groaned the Alpha, the one with the funny name. Well, they both had funny names, so that didn’t help much. The younger one with the funny name had thrown his beautiful head back. He had dark curls and a sinfully sculpted pout. John could not resist licking the expanse of swan-like white neck.

John was straddling his lap, impaled on his thick prick, clenching round it for all he was worth. Hands, lovely hands, really, were cupping John’s arse, supporting him, holding him, as strong thighs bounced him hard.

John didn’t know how he’d got here. Well, that wasn’t true. He knew exactly how he’d got here, but it beggared belief all the same.

John was an Omega-for-hire. He’d had an appointment with a new client, and he’d got the bloody address wrong. He knocked on the door, the wrong door. The well-spoken, well-dressed toff had set him straight, the place John wanted was three doors down, but, suddenly, there’d been a small explosion, and John, once a doctor-soldier, always a doctor-soldier, had followed the well-dressed toff inside to see if he could help.

That’s when he met the other toff, a younger brother of the first, who’d been messing about in some kind home laboratory. When the smoke cleared, the mad scientist had rattled off John’s life story as if it were an episode of East Enders and then explained, in wondrous detail, how he figured it all out.

Really, it’d been extraordinary. And, apparently, the younger one was the stupider of the two!

The stupid one was a detective, an honest-to-God detective. The smart one was a bit cagey about what he did. Judging by the address and the suit and the security and the weapons on the wall, John figured the fellow was M.

A bit of first aid and a check for concussion and John was on his way, but the surprises kept coming.

When John reached the correct address, he had found his client shot through the head.

Panicked, John had raced back to the brothers, who had, in a matter of hours, discovered the murderer and cleared John of all suspicion. And, then, with a tap of a mobile, the well-hung buggers had contacted the agency and hired him, John, to service them.

“Sherlock, don’t be greedy. Come here, John.”

The brothers were sitting side-by-side on the sofa.

John fled one lap for another and impaled himself once more.

The Mister Spy vs. Spy’s eyes were closed, and he looked like a statue. His hands were resting on John, but not, John thought, really touching him.

John frowned and opened his mouth, but then the voice beside him stopped him.

“He likes it. He just doesn’t like to show it. Mycroft, don’t be rude.”

Eyelids fluttered. “You are exquisite, my dear man. Please don’t interpret stoicism for,” he gasped, “lack of regard. Sherlock, please suck John’s prick while I fuck him.”

The dark head tucked itself between their bodies, and John groaned.


End file.
